a night feast

seeded cherries are your lips,
blood is our wine —

we drink from the mouth
of a night’s vestigial appendage,
when the sky speaks of ecstatic
pains & pining sighs of a merlot-
moon.

cinnamon rings are my eyes,
russet are our limbs —

we feed on the saplings
of our fingers, the perspiring
sacrilege of our arduous
dreams & deep lines of a copper-
eclipse.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 7
(Inter)National Poetry Month

 

 

this licentious topography

your eyes are water-channels never be-
-fore-seen by the travails of my body,

your hands are grains on a dried river-bed
that haven’t felt what it is to be dreaded
with a precipitating desire for
such soft/silken/smooth meridians — i laugh
away your hesitant touch, as if di-
-vided by a barrier of evergreen trees.

the epicenter of this tremor lies
in your heaving chest, and your soft cries
are the lingua-franca of this land,
dense with ligatures of our limbs: misaligned —

we meet at the estuary of our dreams,
our faultlines eroded by limited means.

.

© Anmol  Arora

A broken/battered sonnet for my prompt this week for dVerse Poetics (On Geography), where I have shared verses by Whitman, Bishop, and Ammons, to inspire the poets and prompted everyone to inculcate geographical themes in their writing. Do not forget to visit and participate. Also, I am linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.